


to be free (to never grow up)

by cantando_siempre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Peter Pan AU, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Boys In Love, But you already knew that, F/F, F/M, I love my boys so much, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, PAINTM - Freeform, Sappy Ending, a lotTM - Freeform, all relationships are confirmed but relationships other than courferre are background, combeferre misses courfeyrac a lot tbh, combeferre's pining too though, combeferre's totally in love, courfeyrac loves dandelions and his mama, courfeyrac's enchanted with combeferre that's it that's the entire fic, first fic i've written with all of les amis and i'm pretty proud, i'll update the tags as i update chapters to avoid spoilers, les amis are amazing, lots and lots of peter pan quotes, marius & courfeyrac are best budsTM and no one will convince me otherwise, mermaid! patron-minette, tattooed combeferre, the Guard are...annoying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-27 23:51:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16229873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantando_siempre/pseuds/cantando_siempre
Summary: “I feel... I feel like we've met before.”“In another life?” Combeferre says slowly, drawing closer.“Something like that,” Courfeyrac laughs nervously.“Maybe we did.”Courfeyrac can’t look away from Combeferre’s face.  His eyes glint like a knife’s edge and his lips are a smooth cocoa color, his skin a dusky brown and his hair ebony-dark.  “What would it mean if we had?” he asks quietly.“That’s up to you to decide,” Combeferre murmurs.-or: a peter pan courferre au with some little surprises sprinkled in





	1. come with me where dreams are born and time is never planned

**Author's Note:**

> wOW this took me a hot minute but i am so so proud of it! i adore peter pan + les mis so add them together and you get this glorious mess  
> it's very long overall (15810) and i contemplated posting it as a oneshot but i know that would be a lot so i decided to break it up. have fun freaking out in between because i think i'm pretty good at cliffhangers lol  
> i want to give SO many thanks to the-night-that-ends-at-last on tumblr (A_New_World_To_Be_Won on ao3), because she gave me so much encouragement and hyped up my crazy ideas and this wouldn't have been at the quality it is without her, thank you lovely <3  
> warnings overall - cursing (sh**, a**, etc.), violence (not domestic or abusive), sadness later on (have fun)  
> credits - dance-with-the-diaval's peter pan courferre aesthetic/moodboard for giving me the original idea for this fic! a lot of inspiration from different places went into this fic; i'll credit each individual bit as it comes up in a chapter  
> hope you enjoy!!

_Courfeyrac_ _has always been excited to grow up._  

It started when he was 6.  He was walking through the barrio with his mamá, coming back from the bodega and clutching onto a small dandelion he’d found growing through a crack in the sidewalk.   

 _He’d presented it to his_   _mamá_   _and she’d chuckled, ruffling his hair.  When they finally climbed up to their tiny apartment’s red-painted, chipped door, he’d darted inside as soon as his_ _mamá_   _unlocked it, searching for his father._ _Courfeyrac_ _found him in his ‘office’, hunched over his desk, and excitedly tapped on his leg until he groaned and looked down._ _Courfeyrac_ _thrust the dandelion up -- “I got you a flower!”_  

 _“That’s a weed,_ _Courfeyrac_ _,” his father had said dismissively, turning back to his work.  “Put it in the trash.  I can’t afford any more of those things outside.”_  

 _Courfeyrac_ _had slumped, and then crept to the small space they called a kitchen, dropping the flower – weed, he reminds himself, into the trash can._  

 _He_ _had come_ _home from school the next_ _day_ _to see a bouquet of dandelions in their_ _only_ _nice vase on the kitchen table, and a purple bruise on his_ _mamá’s_ _cheek.  She’d said she fell._  

 _When he’s grown up, he decides, he’ll fill his entire apartment with dandelions and get a whole br_ _ight r_ _oom just for his_ _mamá_. 

10 years old.  

 _He was out on his family’s tiny apartment fire escape to watch the sunrise, plucking dandelions from his_ _mamá’s_ _neglected garden box and weaving them into a flower circlet, when he heard his parents screaming at each other inside.  He’d known it was coming, even at 10, because he’d heard Miss Rosario talking to another kid in his class about how her parents still loved her even though they weren’t together anymore.  He’d come home from school that night and asked his parents exactly that; his_ _mamá_ _had smiled weakly and run her hand through his sweat-soaked hai_ _r.  “Of course_ _,_ _conejito_ _,” she_ _’d whispered._  

 _His father hadn’t answered._  

 _When he’s grown up, he decides, he’ll find a new way to make his_ _mamá_ _smile every day._  

16.

 _He was sitting at home on their ratty old couch that his mother had covered in sunflower-printed, plastic, crinkly tablecloths, cradling a dandelion in his palms as he waited for her to get home.  He waited for hours, watching as the sun went to sleep and the shadows crawl towards his bare feet as the moon sh_ _one_ _on the wilted flower in his hands._  

 _He ended up doing a lot of waiting in the hospital the next morning, too._  

 _When he’s grown up, he decides, he’ll make sure no one ever has to watch their_ _mamá_ _die in front of them again._  

21.

 _He was just finished with college, somehow making his way through in a whirlwind of panic attacks and late nights in the campus library and hot cocoa (coffee makes his anxiety worse).  He stood in front of the realtor and watched him carefully, assessing his face._ _Courfeyrac’d_ _just handed over the security deposit he’d scrounged together and the last document needed, and the realtor was fishing in his pocket.  He’d grinned and motioned for_ _Courfeyrac_   _to put his hand out._  

 _He did, and the realtor dropped the key to the apartment in his hand._ _Courfeyrac’s_ _fingers had curled around it eagerly, the edges digging into his paint-stained calluses, and he’d pulled out his keyring.  With a nod from the realtor,_ _Courfeyrac_ _had almost reverently fastened the key onto his ring, swinging it around the loop to rest next to his gold dandelion charm_ _from_ _his_ _mamá_ _,_ _and he’d felt tears welling up in the corners of his eyes._  

 _The realtor had left_ _Courfeyrac_ _standing in front of the door._ _Courfeyrac_ _was making plans to sneakily paint a tiny dandelion above the lock when he’d heard someone clearing their throat behind him.  Turning around, he’d prepared to meet one of his new neighbors and run through his usual speech about ‘yes, he’s gay, no, he’s not interested in your also-gay cousin three times removed’ when he’d almost choked._  

 _His father was standing in front of him, after_ _nine_ _years of static and silence._  

 _They’d talked – well,_ _Courfeyrac’s_ _‘father’ had talked_ at  _him – in front of his new apartment door._ _C_ _ourfeyrac_ _had felt his stomach curdle and his toes curl, an angry scream building in his throat, when his father had abruptly turned and left, citing some dinner date._  

 _When he’s grown up, he decides, he’ll be brave enough to tell his father to go away for good._  

So here he is, the night before his 25th birthday.  It’s 11:09 PM, and his skinny-jean-clad legs are swinging in the Parisian night air and a breeze is twirling through his tangled, tawny thicket of bed-hair where he perches on the roof of his apartment building.  His head is tilted to the side and his eyes study the expanse of the sky as his fingers drum out a Little Mix song on the jagged stones of the roof-edge.  He’d been trying to go to sleep early and not make such a big deal of his birthday, but fixing night-owl habits doesn’t happen in a couple hours.  Paris’s lights twinkle at him, and he’d like to think they’re wishing him a happy birthday. 

 _They’d be the only ones._  

He bites his lip and shivers, pulling his duvet closer around him.  His t-shirt doesn’t do much against the cold (although it does a lot for his biceps), and his hand dances over to his paint-flecked, yellow mug which nests, steaming, in its own little cocoon of his extra blanket.  His fingers give a little tremor as he curls them around the handle, and he hisses as he burns his mouth on the scalding-fresh cinnamon cocoa.  He licks his lips and hunches over, eyes tracking the flight of a fluorescent dandelion puff, and he snickers to himself at the thought of how some drunk idiot managed to put a single mini-light bulb inside a weed ( _flower, his mind corrects him, and he flinches slightly)_. 

His watch beeps 11:11 PM. 

There’s a thud from outside his apartment. 

Courfeyrac leans over and peers forward, teetering dangerously close to the edge of the roof, and his eyes dart toward a shadow of a person that slips inside his  _locked_ bedroom window.   

And then he leans too far. 

A screech bubbles up in his chest, and he sees his mug tumbling with him and his cocoa splatters like cinnamon-scented paint over the ancient cobblestones of the street below as his duvet billows around him in a flurry of star-chart-patterns when -- 

When his heart practically flies through his throat as he lands in someone’s arms with a jolt _,_ hearing his mug smash, and he curses under his breath, hands shaking and bottom lip trembling and his pulse fluttering in his neck like a trapped butterfly.   

That was his favorite mug. 

Courfeyrac goes to put his feet down, desperately hoping he won’t collapse and embarrass himself in front of his savior (who’s gotta have some killer arms because damn, Courfeyrac’s not  _that_  light) and drops a couple inches as a grunt huffs out from behind him.   

“Could you not do that?” a voice hisses lowly in his ear, and Courfeyrac’s pulse rockets ever higher and he curses in his head when he feels a blush creeping up his chest.   

“Sorry,” he drawls, “didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to stand up after getting saved from certain death.” 

“No, feel free, but I have a feeling you’d probably die anyway,” the voice returns, and Courfeyrac looks down and... he’s floating 7 meters above the ground. 

“ _Shit,”_ Courfeyrac shrieks, and his fingers clench around his savior’s shoulders as a laugh rumbles in their chest.  “No offense, but could you maybe put me on solid ground?” Courfeyrac wheezes. 

“Of course,” they mutter against his ear, and suddenly they’re levitating up and through Courfeyrac’s now unlocked window.  Courfeyrac scrabbles out of the person’s hold and stumbles over to his bed, collapsing face first and pulling the duvet he somehow managed to hold onto over his head, groaning.  He realizes it’s a mistake when he can’t breathe, so he rolls over and stares at the candlelight flickering over his cracked, water-stained ceiling, the scent of vanilla still wafting through his bedroom from when he lit a candle two hours ago.   

Someone clears their throat. 

“Right,” Courfeyrac sighs.  He pulls his eyes down, scanning over the silhouette of the person against his window.  Cold air gusts in, and Courfeyrac shivers again.  The figure huffs a laugh and turns, reaching up to yank the window closed with defined forearms twined with...  _ivy?_  

Courfeyrac sits up, gnawing on his lip, and assesses who he  _thinks_ is a man.  He can’t see him perfectly, but he notices curly hair with an undercut, tousled and ebony-dark where it flops over his forehead.  “So, are you going to kill me?” Courfeyrac says dryly. 

“Why would I save you just to kill you?” 

“I don’t know, dude, serial killers are weird people.” 

“I’m not a serial killer.” 

“Good to know, I believe you.” 

“You... do?” 

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac mutters, pulling his flip-out knife from his waistband and stalking forward.  “I’m not an idiot; who would trust the word of a complete stranger?” 

“Well, I did save you,” the man says, laughter lacing his tone.  “How about we introduce ourselves?” 

“Why?” 

“You said you couldn’t trust a complete stranger,” the man points out, “but if we know each other’s name we won’t be strangers and you can trust me when I say I'm just looking for my shadow.” 

“Nice one,” Courfeyrac laughs darkly.  “You’re funny.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Crazy, too. Against the window.” Courfeyrac growls.  

He backs the man up against the window, stepping lightly, and studies his face.  Half of it is still in darkness, but he sees carved cheekbones slicing through the shadow and dark eyelashes fanning out, with a prominent cupid’s bow pulled into a smirk.  “What’re you doing,  _ami_ _?_ ” the man murmurs.  “Is this how you treat someone who saves your life?” 

“How else should I treat someone who’s breaking into my bedroom?” 

“My sincerest apologies,” the man bows.  “Allow me to collect my shadow and I'll be...  _glad_ to go.” 

“ _What_ are you talking about?” 

“Combeferre.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“My name. Combeferre.  Not a stranger anymore, am I?” he hums, tilting his chin up, dark eyes flashing. 

 _Damn, he’s hot._  

“So?” 

“So what?” 

“What’s yours?” 

“My what?” 

The stranger chuckles.  “Your name.” 

“Why would I tell you that?” 

“So we’re not strangers, obviously.” 

It’s a bad idea. 

Courfeyrac’s not going to do it. 

“Courfeyrac.”  

 _He did it._  

“Courfeyrac,” the stranger –  _Combeferre_ _–_ repeats, a tiny smile twisting his lips and his eyes glistening, and Courfeyrac remembers all the romances he’s read where the lovestruck protagonist practically faints at the sound of the love interest saying their name.   _It rolls off their tongue perfectly, flows fluidly from their lips the first time,_  the protagonist says lovingly, and Courfeyrac mentally shakes his head.  It’s not like that with Combeferre. 

Courfeyrac’s name on Combeferre’s mouth feels like coming home. 

“Who the hell  _are_ you?” 

“I just told you,” Combeferresmirks.  “Did the fall damage your hearing too?” 

“Must have damaged my sight, more like, because I could’ve sworn we were flying.  What kind of kidnapping drugs do you have me on?” 

“None,” Combeferre says simply.  “We  _were_ flying.”  

Courfeyrac blinks. 

“Alright.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.  Wouldn’t be the strangest – well, it  _would_ be the strangest thing to happen tonight, but I’m honestly too tired to figure it out now,” Courfeyrac sighs.  “I’m going to bed.”   

Courfeyrac starts across his room,  _clicking_ his knife away and slipping it into his waistband before he feels a hot hand brush against his wrist.  Combeferre is burning up, heat radiating off his skin and curling in tendrils above the peek of ink flowing from under his leather-covered forearm.  “Fantastic,” Combeferre says, “but I fear I'm still missing a shadow.” 

“You’re just messing with me.” 

“Sadly, I am not.” 

Combeferre’s fingers twitch and suddenly he’s levitating a few centimeters off Courfeyrac’s ratty bedroom carpet, ivy and skeleton leaves trailing in his wake as he floats up to wrap his hands around Courfeyrac’s vanilla candle.  Courfeyrac lets out a small gasp at how Combeferre just  _flies_ , and Combeferre shoots him a smirk as he practically dances through the air.  Combeferre moves languidly, not a care in the world, and Courfeyrac finds himself wondering what exactly would make him a bit more...  _desperate_. 

Courfeyrac jolts out of his trance when Combeferre drifts to the ground and holds out the candleholder to him.  He stares for a second until Combeferre gestures impatiently to his own feet and Courfeyrac understands, sweeping the candle behind Combeferre and humming as he does, indeed, see no shadow. 

“Why’s your shadow in my bedroom, then?” Courfeyrac asks teasingly, a secret grin hiding at the corner of his mouth like he always saw lurking on his mamá’s lips. 

“No idea,” Combeferre says nonchalantly, proceeding to dig through Courfeyrac’s things and promptly ignoring his noise of protest.  “’Suppose it took the same interest in you I did.” 

Courfeyrac almost chokes.   

“Here we are,” Combeferre growls, and he flicks a knife down into his hand with a soft  _shing_ _,_ tossing the dagger with an almost lazy snap of his fingers to send it, handle quivering, buried into Courfeyrac’s bedpost less than a meter away from his head.   

Courfeyrac  _squeaks._  

He’ll deny it later, but squeak he does.  Panting, he gets ready to shout at Combeferre but Combeferre rushes toward him, and he licks his lips until Combeferre snakes his fingers around a void-black shape with the same silhouette of Combeferre’s figure from where it hangs from the dagger still trembling in the wood of Courfeyrac’s bedpost. 

“Here’s the little shit,” Combeferre mutters, and Courfeyrac’s brain jolts to attention at Combeferre’s cursing (he really shouldn’t find it that hot).   

“Now what?” 

“Now, I reattach it.  Any ideas?” 

“You could try sewing it,” Courfeyrac suggests, valiantly ignoring the absurdity of his current situation. 

“Why the hell not,” Combeferre mutters, eyes watching in Courfeyrac’s face in the dim candlelight.  “Care to do the honors?” 

Courfeyrac’s already pulling his sewing kit from his nightstand. 

“Where’d you learn to sew?” Combeferre asks conversationally, lounging on the end of Courfeyrac’s bed and seemingly not noticing how Courfeyrac bites his lower lip at Combeferre’s low voice. 

“I ...” 

“Yes?” 

“I... don’t know.” Courfeyrac says, bewildered as he absentmindedly weaves the needle in and out.  “I feel whispers in part of my head, like it’s an empty cavern, but it’s like there’s a locked door and there’s light from the crack underneath and I can tell there’s people there and  _something_ there but...  I’m locked out.” 

Combeferre hums, but Courfeyrac senses his grip tighten on the edge of the bed. 

“Why?” Courfeyrac ventures. 

“No reason,” Combeferre says quickly.   _Too quickly_. 

Courfeyrac’ll bring it up later. 

“All done,” Courfeyrac murmurs, glancing up at Combeferre through his eyelashes from where he’s kneeling on the floor.  Combeferre’s towering over him, and Courfeyrac feels like he’s an explorer, Odysseus maybe, faced with a colossal sea creature. 

Except Courfeyrac doesn’t think Odysseus wanted to kiss sea creatures. 

Combeferre stares right back, eyes burning as they track across Courfeyrac’s collarbone and the dip of his t-shirt, before he laughs delightedly and springs off the bed, seemingly suspended in the air just by his smile flashing white in the darkness.  Combeferre glides over and cups the candle in his hands, humming gently, and it flares ever brighter as Combeferre pinwheels around the ceiling, his head twisting to follow his own shadow as Courfeyrac watches.   

Courfeyrac’s absolutely enchanted. 

Enchanted by this stranger, this man, who caught him in his arms and flew around his room.  This –  _Combeferre_ _,_ who soars through the air like it’s easy as breathing and pulls Courfeyrac a little more under his spell every time he smiles. 

“A bit cocky, aren’t we?” Courfeyrac calls, reluctant to distract Combeferre but desperately wanting those eyes back on him. 

“Oh, the cleverness of me.” Combeferre returns dryly, folding his arms as he slowly descends through the air.  Courfeyrac tilts his head, tawny curls flopping over one eye, and scans Combeferre up and down.  “What’s wrong?” Combeferre asks. 

“I feel... I feel like I've known you before.” 

“Well,  _I_ know we’ve never met.  Your face is not one I'd forget.” 

Fighting a blush, Courfeyrac thinks harder.  “No... differently, somehow.  Some other time,  _something.”_  

 _“_ In another life?” Combeferre says slowly, drawing closer. 

“Something like that,” Courfeyrac laughs nervously. 

“Maybe we did.” 

Courfeyrac can’t look away from Combeferre.  His eyes glint like a knife’s edge and his lips are a smooth cocoa color, his skin a dusky brown and his hair ebony-dark.  “What would it mean if we had?” he asks quietly. 

“That’s up to you to decide,” Combeferre murmurs. 

And then he pulls away.   

“How can I thank you, Courfeyrac?” Combeferre says formally, hands clasped behind his back, and Courfeyrac’s mind is reeling. 

“A kiss would be suitable,” he says without thinking, and gasps as soon as he realizes what he’s said.  His neck is a raging fire and his nose is twitching, and he  _hates_ his brain. 

“Very well.” 

 _What?_  

And then Combeferre’s slinking closer again, and Courfeyrac can’t see anything but his dark eyes and smell anything but leather and fresh rain-soil and a trace of vanilla.  Combeferre’s leaning in, and Courfeyrac can’t breathe.   

Combeferre’s lips press to the corner of Courfeyrac’s, so close he could turn his head a centimeter and be truly kissing him, and Courfeyrac realizes in the back of his mind that Combeferre’s temperature has evened out but his lips are still  _hot_ against Courfeyrac’s cold skin and he feels them in his bones and then they’re gone. 

Combeferre’s pulling away, but he’s still so  _close._ Courfeyrac can feel his breath against his cheek.   

“Come with me?” 

“What?” 

“Come home with me.” 

“Where do you even live, a woodland spirit such as you?” Courfeyrac laughs shakily, and his entire body’s unbearably colder than that one spot on the secret corner of his mouth. 

“A secret place,” Combeferre smiles faintly.  “But one I’d be willing to share with you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to,” Combeferre says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

Maybe it is. 

“So come with me where dreams are born and time is never planned,” Combeferre breathes, his searching eyes flitting across Courfeyrac’s face, tracing over the slope of his crooked nose and the curve of his slim top lip.   

Courfeyrac only smiles. 

He can hear whispers, echoes of a bone-deep, drumming, endless harmony countering a soaring, triumphant melody.  He sees a gargantuan, crimson flag tumbling in a storm, thin fingers and knobby knuckles wrapped around the flag’s base, and he feels the same hand wrap around his own as a phantom pain blossoms in his chest and blood splatters bright on ivory and ebony piano keys.  He sees Combeferre’s face, his slender eyebrows quirked and eyes dancing, and Courfeyrac smells ink and tastes iron. 

The locked door in his mind slams open. 

And he hears a gunshot echo in the distance and he crumples to the ground and everything’s gone.   


	2. never say goodbye, because goodbye means forgetting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t!” Combeferre blurts out, and Courfeyrac’s head jerks up, his eyes locking with Combeferre’s. “Don’t -- never say goodbye.”  
> “What --”  
> “Never say goodbye,” Combeferre pleads, “because goodbye means going away, and going away means forgetting, and I really don’t think I can take you forgetting again,” he smiles sadly.  
> -  
> or: courfeyrac discovers some secrets and combeferre's a tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh wait, there's more!  
> this one is longer than the last by...a lot  
> credits -  
> @littlesmartart on tumblr made this amazing marius & courf fanart that i love; inspiration for a scene in this chapter  
> @enjolyras on tumblr made a post about the les mis tour and enj & r during red and black that i took inspiration from  
> and there's a quote in here from peggy carter; not sure which movie it's from but i adore the quote  
> enjoy!

The next thing Courfeyrac hears is the ocean.

He’s not sure exactly how he knows it’s the ocean, since he’s never been to the beach before, but stranger things have happened in the past few hours.

He sits up slowly, a hand flying to his head as pain pulses through his skull, and runs his hand through his hair.  Looking around, he’s on a seemingly deserted coast.  Water thunders against immense rocks that hem him into some sort of cove, and trees twist in the distance behind the shoreline.  

Courfeyrac pulls himself to his knees, brushing sand from his jeans as he tugs himself fully to his feet.  He almost falls over on his first step, but soon he’s sprinting, curls whipping in the gusts of wind that scatter his skin with miniscule grains of sand and dot his cheeks with seawater like his freckles.  He careens towards the ocean and stops only to tug his yellow sunflower-patterned converse off, tossing them onto a rock and laughing wildly when they promptly  _plop_ back onto the wet sand.   

He plummets into the spray, relishing the sand squishing between his toes and the seabirds circling above his head where he cranes his neck to see the moon levitating above the tides.  She’s not quite smiling, but she’s not frowning; she’s got a sort of curve to her mouth and Courfeyrac half-grins back as he slices through the current head-first, surfacing and shaking his head like his puppy used to do, flinging water back into the ocean like glinting shards of silver.

He throws himself deeper and deeper, ignoring the voice in his head that cautions him to head back, and if he hears another voice floating high above the waves and growing more and more desperate by the minute who’s to know?  Courfeyrac has no idea where he is, but he thinks he might be dead, so if he wants to have a near-suicidal swim in the ocean why shouldn’t he?

A shadow passes by overhead at the same time a swirl of frigid water zips by Courfeyrac’s bare feet.  Looking down, he tries to see through the water and can’t make anything out.  

There’s a flash of moonlight shimmering off of scales.

Courfeyrac leans closer...

And laughs with delight, the sound racing across the waves and bouncing back off the thick darkness as Courfeyrac stares straight into a mermaid’s face.  Her cheeks are dripping with water, rivulets running off her bone-sharp cheekbones and beading on her dark eyelashes, framing eyes the color of the light that filters through at the bottom of the ocean.  Her hair seems to absorb the moonlight, lying slicked out over her shoulders and collarbones, and she tilts her head at Courfeyrac and flicks her tail underwater as a small head pops up next to her.  

“What do we think brings him here, brother?” the mermaid murmurs aside to the small mer-boy under her arm, and he reaches over and wraps his arm around the shoulder of another mermaid that’s surfaced next to them, this girl younger than the first but older than the boy.  

“Is he lost?” the young girl asks eagerly, eyes roving over Courfeyrac’s face and looking to who he assumes is her older sister.

“Are you lost?” the little boy pipes up, cocking his head and staring straight into Courfeyrac’s eyes.

“You’re being terribly rude, Éponine,” a deep voice adds, another merman emerging from under the water.  His hair and skin are the same dark color as the other three merpeople, seeming to absorb the moonlight and reflect it out through his piercing, light eyes.  “You haven’t offered our guest a place to rest.”

“Of course,” the first mermaid – Éponine? -- sneers.  “Thank you, Montparnasse.”

“Éponine doesn't like you much, ‘Parnasse!” the younger girl chirps, ignoring a disdainful hiss from her older sister.

“Doesn’t she, Azelma? Oh, Éponine, I’m disappointed,” Montparnasse deadpans, eyes flickering over to Éponine.

Meanwhile, the little boy’s grabbed Courfeyrac’s hand and is towing him over to a rock, proceeding to help hoist Courfeyrac up onto his new spot with surprising strength.  “What are you doing here?” the boy asks.  “My name’s Gavroche, by the way, but you can call me Gav.”

“I --” 

“Are you here to stay?”

“I -- what?”

“Will you stay with us here in Neverland?” Gavroche repeats, gazing up at Courfeyrac with pleading eyes and a twist to his mouth that’s hauntingly familiar, and the same eyes flash behind Courfeyrac’s vision, set in a face splattered with blood and contorted with pain.  Courfeyrac tears his gaze away and realizes the other three merpeople have gathered behind Gavroche, with even more appearing behind the initial four.

“Why -- why would I?”

“I need a playmate,” Gavroche pleads, still watching Courfeyrac.  “All it’d take is for you to come down; I promise you’ll be fine, and then we can play!”

“Play...” Courfeyrac echoes.  His head feels like it’s stuffed full of the clouds that drift above his head, thick and dense and blocking the luminescent starlight.  His eyes are unfocused, but he recognizes that he’s started to slide off the rock and into the water.   _Wait,_ his brain whispers, and he tries to dig his fingers in to stop himself but the rock’s too slick.   _Danger,_ his brain screams, terrified, and Courfeyrac’s mind clears, cloud cover breaking, but he can’t control his  _body_  and he’s still sliding in.  The merpeople have wrapped their long fingernails around his ankles and they’re tugging, still watching him intently, and Courfeyrac tries to struggle but  _he can’t._

“Courfeyrac!” someone calls desperately, and Courfeyrac feels a gust of air whoosh past his face and weave through his hair.  He manages to force his head up slightly and sees a shadow drifting over the waves, forming a familiar silhouette.  His mind’s working overtime, darting from shelf to shelf in the endless library of his mind and tossing books through the air, pages ripping and drifting in a whirlwind to the ground.

“Combeferre,” he croaks out, and his eyes widen as he sinks fully below the water.  The salt water pricks his eyes, and he blinks furiously.  When he can see, he finds the merpeople’s eyes glowing gold and their hair drifting around their heads, creating a sort of halo that the moonlight shines through.  Courfeyrac can’t breathe, and he suddenly realizes that  _nope, it’s not a dream_ , because usually by now he’d have woken up.  

He’s realized it’s not a dream, and now he’s going to drown.

Perfect.

He plummets deeper and deeper, the moon’s half-smile vanishing, and he’s clawing at the bubbles, trying to grab them and they’re slipping through his pale fingers and  _why won’t they stay still_ \--

He’s shooting up through the water, lungs aching and burning, and he sucks in a huge lungful of air when he breaks the surface.  He doesn’t stop there, though; he keeps going up and up and up until he’s several meters above the water.  

He cranes his head over his shoulder and sees someone --  _Combeferre’s_  panicked face.  The memories he remembered before rush back and slam into his brain, and he chokes out a sob, clenching his fingers around Combeferre’s shoulders.  Combeferre’s eyes widen, and he starts rushing out questions as he floats them over to a tall rock to set Courfeyrac down.  Once Courfeyrac’s perched on the safe rock, Combeferre flies around him, patting his arms and legs and head and muttering under his breath.  He’s flitting around Courfeyrac like a hummingbird, running his hands down Courfeyrac’s chest and neck and gently tugging them through his knotted, wet hair, and Courfeyrac shivers, tingles racing down his spine.  “Are you ok?” Combeferre asks frantically, and Courfeyrac manages a nod.  “Good.”

Combeferre pauses. 

“What were you  _thinking_?” he cries, face twisting.

“What do you mean --”

“Why the hell would you get up and decide on an ocean _swim_? I left for literally five minutes to get Joly and see if you were okay, and your automatic reaction upon waking up is ‘oh, let’s go jump in the ocean at night in bad weather’?  What the  _hell,_ Courfeyrac?”

“I just --”

“I was worried!” Combeferre bursts out.

“I’m sorry!” Courfeyrac yells back.

It goes silent.

“Look, I didn’t know where I was or how I got here or who brought me here or  _anything_ _._   You would think remembering a bunch of old shit from ages ago would help you deal with crises, but apparently the solution is to do stupid stuff, so here we are, and where the  _hell_ did mermaids come from?”

Combeferre’s face darkens at the reminder, and he practically growls.  “I’ll be back,” he promises, and then he spins on his heel and plummets down to sea-level.  Courfeyrac leans over to watch.

 _“_ Éponine!” Combeferre calls sharply.

The same older mermaid from earlier surfaces, flicking her hair out of her face innocently.  “Yes, Combeferre?”

“Why would you try to drown him?  Couldn’t you tell who he is?” Combeferre hisses through his teeth.  “I’ve waited for so long, and you know that, and he could’ve died because of you!  I never would’ve done that to Cosette!”

"Gav didn’t know,” Éponine says quickly, defensiveness creeping into her voice.

“You and Montparnasse did!  What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of my family, Combeferre,” Éponine spits.  “I’m sorry you can’t do the same, but I have to take care of my family before myself or others.  Maybe consider thinking about other people’s reasons before you come and tell them off, jackass.”

Éponine sinks back underwater, and Combeferre slumps.

He flies slowly up to Courfeyrac, face pensive.  “You okay?” Courfeyrac ventures.

“Yeah,” Combeferre says distractedly.

“Listen, Combeferre, what’s going on?  First you save me from falling off my roof, then you can fly, then I  _sew your shadow on_ , then you kiss me and I pass out, and now I just got enchanted and almost murdered by merpeople?  What the hell is going on?  Who  _are_ you, and why does my head feel like it’s splitting in half?”

“We need to get back home,” Combeferre decides.  “I’ll tell you there.”

Courfeyrac’s heart drops through his feet.

“Not yours,” Combeferre amends distractedly.  “This home.”

“Your home?” Courfeyrac asks.

“My home.”

***

Combeferre glances back from where he’s pushing through a thicket of thorns, flashing Courfeyrac a grin, and then they’re emerging into a field of tall grass whispering in the wind and wispy wildflowers dotting the dirt.  Combeferre steps into the center of the field and flings his arms out.  “What do you think?” he gestures to a treehouse, nestled up high in the branches.  “Welcome to  _Amis_ House.”

While Combeferre’s home appears to be a treehouse, Courfeyrac doesn’t think you can just call it a treehouse.  The network of individual houses takes up an entire grove of trees that twist out of the soil like vines, reaching up to support the moss-covered wood which seems to levitate in the pale moonlight.  “It’s amazing,” Courfeyrac breathes, spinning around with his neck craned to peer at the houses towering above him.  Suddenly, he lets out a yelp as he’s swept off the ground, flinging his arms around Combeferre’s neck.  “What are you doing?” Courfeyrac shrieks.

“We’re taking the fast way up,” Combeferre laughs, his feet landing on the porch of  _Amis_ House as he gently sets Courfeyrac down.  Courfeyrac stumbles a bit, but follows Combeferre into the house as the door creaks open.

The inside of the main house is warm and cozy, pillows and blankets thrown haphazardly across the crush of squishy chairs and couches.  There’s an enormous circular table taking up the center of the room, pamphlets and unlit candles spread across it, and a vast map pinned to the middle.  

Courfeyrac drifts around the room, examining his surroundings and vaguely aware of Combeferre watching him, and stops at a painting lovingly framed on the wall.  He cocks his head and looks closer; the artist has painted a group of people all clustered in front of a crookedly-leaning storefront, and the people in the painting practically leap off the stained paper.  

A man in a red waistcoat and another in a green vest are arguing furiously in one corner while two girls, one smiling and the other smirking, beckon a pale redhead over to join them; Courfeyrac scans over the other people but stops when he reaches the edge of the group.  A tall, dark-skinned man with a pair of glasses perched on his nose is rolling his eyes fondly at another man, who’s laughing gleefully and draping himself over the first man’s arm, stretching for a hat held out of his reach.

Combeferre manages to catch Courfeyrac when he abruptly collapses, pain splitting through his head.  He scoops Courfeyrac up and carefully carries him into another room, setting him down gently on a cot in the corner.  “You ok?” he murmurs, eyes flitting over Courfeyrac with more than a hint of concern.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Courfeyrac hums, flushing slightly and picking at dried paint splatters on his forearms.  “Just tired, I guess.”

“Go ahead and rest.”

“But --”

“We’re not going anywhere, Courf,” Combeferre chuckles.

Courfeyrac pauses.  “Courf?”

Is Combeferre  _blushing_?

“Is it alright?” he asks cautiously.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac nods, a tiny grin threatening to overtake his lips.  “Perfect.”

“Go to sleep,” Combeferre says gently.  “I’ll -- we’ll be here when you wake up.”

Courfeyrac sinks into the cot and closes his eyes, listening to Combeferre rustle around the room as Courfeyrac sinks into sleep.

***

Courfeyrac wakes up to the sight of Combeferre’s bare back.

Definitely not the worst wake-up he’s ever had.

Combeferre’s arms are linked above his head, pulling off his shirt, and his shoulder-blades are jutting out in sharp relief.  His cocoa-brown skin is half-covered in spirals of tattoos, intricate designs and symbols marching across the expanse of his back.  Courfeyrac’s trying to decode a particular symbol when Combeferre turns his head --

Courfeyrac’s not sure he’s ever blushed this hard in his life.  Combeferre  _must_ be able to see it, which is rare with Courfeyrac’s skin, but regardless, there’s no way it’s not blatantly obvious he was staring.  He’s half ready for Combeferre to scold him or just walk out, but he  _smirks_.  “Like what you see?”

Courfeyrac can’t make himself open his mouth.

“Pretty impressive, aren’t they?  Grantaire did most of the ones on my back and arms, but my chestwas... special.”

Combeferre’s still got his head turned lazily over his shoulder, and Courfeyrac’s pretty sure his brain short-circuits at the mention of  _chest tattoos._

Combeferre must be a mind reader, because the next thing he says -- “Would you like to see them?”  He must not really consider it a question, because he promptly turns around, beckoning Courfeyrac forward.  Courfeyrac sits up, brushing the thin blanket aside, and pulls himself unsteadily to his feet to examine the newly discovered tattoos.  He’s resolved to ignore the confusingness of how he got to this point and just roll with it before Combeferre comes to his senses.

A flock of moths flutter across Combeferre’s front on a diagonal, twisting path from his right hip to his left collarbone, intertwined with stars and nebulae and constellations.  The effect produced is that the moths are dancing through space, the three biggest, most detailed moths clustered close to Combeferre’s heart.  

One of the moths is a deep black with shocks of electric blue along the edges of its wings, the very ends a blood-bright cerise and veins of violet shooting through the wings to coalesce near the tops into miniature galaxies.  The second is a vivid crimson, ripples undulating on its wings, a spectrum of dusty browns and deep blacks and vibrant reds with tints of gold and emerald adorning the margins.  

The final moth, and the one directly over Combeferre’s heart, is a pearlescent, pale green silkmoth with scatterings of cobalt ink made to look like paint splatters dotting the paper-thin wings.  This moth has miniscule designs embossed on the wings’ borders; Courfeyrac looks even closer and his chest clenches as he sees they’re strikingly brilliant yellow sunflower petals and miniature bits of dandelion fluff.  

Entranced, Courfeyrac finds himself reaching out and trailing a nimble finger over the green silkmoth.  Combeferre’s skin is warm and soft, small goosebumps rising where Courfeyrac’s finger touches.  Courfeyrac feels Combeferre’s chest expand as he sucks in a sudden breath when Courfeyrac touches his skin, and Courfeyrac flicks his eyes up from under his lashes to find Combeferre already watching him, his gaze fond.

“Thoughts?” Combeferre asks quietly, his voice low and warm.  Courfeyrac shivers.

“They’re... they’re absolutely spectacular, Combeferre,” he breathes, eyes wide and still examining the moths.  The green one in particular seems to be calling to him, and he imagines its wings give a tiny flutter when he touches it.  “How’d you get these moths?”

A shade snaps over Combeferre’s face at Courfeyrac’s question, his eyes glazing over and staring into the distance.  His gaze is unfocused, and Combeferre’s nose twitches as his mouth shapes words Courfeyrac can’t hear.  Combeferre’s face contorts as if he’s in pain, and he snaps back into his brain.  “The usual way,” he says, but Courfeyrac can hear the slight tremor in his voice.   _He’ll ask later._

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac is painfully aware of the fact that Combeferre is still shirtless.

“You ready to meet everyone?” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac gulps. 

“Not really.”

“They’re nice, I promise.  Well, maybe not nice, but polite.  Actually, not polite, but they won’t eat you at first sight.  Comforting?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac drawls.  “Do you usually make friends with cannibals?”

Combeferre laughs, unlacing his leather gauntlet with deft fingers.  He tugs on it, sliding it off his forearm, and Courfeyrac gives another almost imperceptible gasp as his eyes are drawn to even more swirls and galaxies of tattoos on Combeferre’s arm.  He hears a laugh, and his gaze shoots up to see Combeferre smirking at him.  “Cool?”

Courfeyrac hums.  He’s having quite a bit of trouble speaking.  

Odd.

“Grantaire did these, too.  Took a while, because there’s so many, but we got them done.”

“There’s more?”

“Oh, yeah,” Combeferre says, a tilt to his mouth.  “You’ve seen these --” he traces a finger over his forearm -- “and these --” over his chest, and Courfeyrac feels heat tingling up his neck -- “but there’s a few more elsewhere.  Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

Combeferre crosses the room and rifles through a wooden chest.  He emerges with a tight long-sleeved shirt, wrestling it over his head and rolling up the sleeves (Courfeyrac can’t stop looking at how  _tight_ it is on his chest and shoulders).  Scooping the first gauntlet up from where he tossed it on the cot, Combeferre tosses it onto a shelf and yanks off the other one; his muscles flex as he unlaces it and pulls it off, keeping his sleeves pushed up around his elbows.  Courfeyrac groans internally; there’s no way he’ll be able to process anything with Combeferre’s tattoos on display.  “Now,” Combeferre grins, “let’s introduce you to everyone.”

***

Combeferre never just walks, Courfeyrac ponders.  He slinks, or he steps, or he saunters, like he is now.  He’s got some sort of elasticity to him that makes him seem lean and dangerous, like he’ll come prowling up behind you at any minute.  

Combeferre saunters to the door of his bedroom (his  _bedroom,_ that  _Courfeyrac’s_ _in, right now_ ) and presses his hand against it, cocking his head to listen to what’s going on through the door and giving a nod.  He pushes, swinging the door open and disappearing through, and Courfeyrac’s got no choice but to follow.  He pads along the rug-covered floor, emerging into the shadows of the common area from earlier, except this time it’s packed full with people.

Courfeyrac gulps.

“No, Grantaire --” he hears, and sees a tiny blond man in a red leather jacket attempting to wrestle a wine bottle out of the stone-tight grip of a stocky, tall man with a veritable rat’s nest of dark hair.  The brunette is slouched elegantly in a chair, his fingers curled around the neck of the quarter-empty wine bottle, and the blonde is stretched over him trying to take it away.  “That’s enough, R, seriously --”

“Apollo, who are you to rain down your judgment --”

“Listen to you, you’re already talking mythy shit, you’re far enough in already,” the blonde groans, albeit fondly, and gives a yank, stumbling back a tiny bit as the wine bottle comes loose.  He laughs triumphantly and holds the bottle above his head, smirking down at the brunette as his jaw drops open indignantly.

“Give it back, Enjolras,” the brunette – R? -- pleads, his hands coming up to circle around the blonde’s hips, but the blonde – Enjolras – ducks away.  

“Nope,” he says flatly, jumping deftly over R’s leg that’s stuck out in an attempt to trip him.  Enjolras strides over to the huge oak table that takes up most of the center of the room, hopping up to sit on the edge with his feet dangling slightly above the ground.

“Apollo,” R croons, swaying over to lean against the table next to Enjolras and tracing his hand down Enjolras’s arm.  Enjolras shudders a tiny bit and his jaw clenches, but he resolutely refuses to look at R.  

“Back to our main business,” Enjolras states loudly, focusing on the clump of the rest of the people in the room where they’re spread across the assortment of chairs, couches, and rugs.  “The Guard moved their ships into the mouth of the lagoon today.  They’re getting closer every day --” he pauses for a brief second.  R is  _kissing up his neck,_ his fingers splayed across Enjolras’s collarbone, but Enjolras pauses for only a breath before diving back in, like that sort of thing happens all the time -- “-- and we need to figure out what their plan is.  Marius, you said you knew a bit about the Guard’s strategies?”

Courfeyrac watches in disbelief as Grantaire gives up and proceeds to simply pull himself onto the table and sit in the center, grabbing a folded piece of paper and fanning himself with it, face flushed, while staring wistfully at Enjolras.

Courfeyrac’s not quite sure how to react, and he glances over at Combeferre.  The two of them are standing slightly in the shadows where the rest can’t see them, and Combeferre’s watching his friends with a slight grin curling his mouth.  Courfeyrac admires Combeferre for a second, and then hears a  _crash._   Head snapping back to the main scene, Courfeyrac watches a sweet, gangly redhead with a riot of freckles down his cheeks and arms bend over awkwardly, righting a chair he knocked over.  “Um, yes,” he stutters.

“Go on, Marius,” Enjolras prompts.  Courfeyrac starts, ears and eyes attentive, and scans the redhead up and down.  Colors flash over his vision, overlaying the redhead’s figure with another similar person wearing a tattered coat and boots with holes in the soles.

_Marius?_

_Why does that sound so familiar?_

“Here’s the thing,” Marius says, “the Guard are pretty... unpredictable.  Last time, we got infiltrated by that cop, but this time around there’s been no one out of the ordinary.  I'm not completely sure what they’re up to, but my best guess is that they remember too and they’re coming back to finish the job.”

“Thank you, Marius,” Enjolras says, and motions to another redhead as Marius flops down.  “Jehan, do you have any intel from your friend?”

Jehan is petite and redheaded, with hair twisted up in a French braid that they’ve got pulled around to the front.  The loose hair at the end of the braid curls at the end and brushes against their collarbone, and they’ve got a sunflower woven through the leather tie that ends the braid.  “Well,” they chirp cheerfully, “I actually didn’t get to see Parnasse today.  He sent a message and said something about a visitor and that Éponine was angry and he ended up not coming.  But, he did tell me before then that he’d gotten a chance to swim out to the ships before they blockaded the lagoon and felt something foreign in the waters, cold and malicious, he said.  He’s not sure what it is, but I was thinking I could look into it with Combeferre when he gets back.”

“Speaking of, where is Combeferre?” a brunette girl pipes up.  She’s perched on a chair next to Marius, resting her head on his shoulder as he rubs his thumb across her knee, and she’s wearing tight leather pants and a red flowy chiffon top that matches her bitten-red lips.  “I visited Ép today before the meeting and she said she’d seen him last night, but --” she trails off.

“What?” Enjolras asks, fingers clenching on the table edge.

“She... said he had someone else with him.  A boy.”

“There’s no way,” another woman objects, dark hair cut short in a bob swinging around her plump cheeks and a hint of a smile curling her mouth like Courfeyrac’s mamá.  She’s squished into a loveseat with two other men, one short and looking like he could make something fall over by just looking at it and the other skinny, his legs flung across the woman’s lap and a cane propped up next to him.  “You know he’d never bring anyone back unless it was... you know.”

“Yeah, 'Chetta,” the clumsy-looking man argues, “but how do we know it’s not?”

“It couldn’t be,” Enjolras says quietly.  “It’s been so long already that there’s no way it’d be him.”

“Why not, Apollo?” R challenges.  “If it’s been that long, it makes even more sense that now’d finally be him.”

“It’s not.”

“What if it is?” R presses, and Enjolras’s shoulders tense.

“Lay off, R,” another man calls, somehow curled into a beanbag even though his legs extend at least a meter off the edge.

“Why, Bahorel?” Grantaire argues.  “There’s no reason it wouldn’t be.”

“Because it’s not enough to get our hopes up,” yet another ginger says gently, his hands pausing from where they were fiddling with a paper fan, snapping it open and shut.   _How many gingers are there?_ Courfeyrac wonders disbelievingly.  “I know you want it to be him, Grantaire, and all of us do, but there’s no sense in getting excited if we don’t know yet.”

He’s having a bit of trouble following the threads of conversation shooting back and forth like bullets, but he’s got a peculiar feeling like his brain’s used to it.  His mind’s somehow processing perfectly, and every time he hears someone talk a spark of recognition ignites, like it’s slowly lighting one candle after another and once they’re all lit, they’ll reveal what he’s missing.  

“Feuilly’s right,” Enjolras sighs, shaking his head.  “We’ll just have to wait and see.  I know everyone’s a bit worried about Combeferre, but I’m sure he’ll be back any moment.”

“How about now?” Combeferre calls, moving forward and into the light.  He’s met with a cacophony of voices, everyone greeting him and some of the people getting up to clap him on the shoulder and ask questions.  Enjolras rises to his feet, a grin spreading across his face, and pulls Combeferre into a hug.  

Courfeyrac feels a spike of jealousy shoot through his gut and chides himself, fingernails digging into his palms.  Enjolras, whoever he is,  _(why does that name make him want to cry?)_ was clearly worried about Combeferre, and obviously is allowed to touch him.  Courfeyrac’s the one who’s enamoured with Combeferre, not the other way around, although he’s thinking most people don’t let ‘just friends’ touch their tattoos, particularly ones on their bare ( _beautiful_ ) chest.  

“How’ve all of you been,  _amis_?” Combeferre inquires, squeezing Enjolras and pulling away.  Enjolras whispers something in his ear, but Combeferre doesn’t answer.

“More importantly, how’ve you been?” the second redhead – Jehan – fires back.

“Pretty good --”

“But  _where’ve_ you been?” the clumsy-looking man blurts out.

“Bossuet!” ‘Chetta’ hisses, whacking his arm lightly with the skinny man’s cane.  “Sorry for stealing your cane, Joly, darling,” she says, pressing a kiss to the other man’s hand.

“It’s fine; he deserved it,” Joly laughs.

“Betrayal!” Bossuet moans, kissing ‘Chetta’s hand when she rests it back on his.  “Seriously, though, dude, what’s up?”

“Well...”

Courfeyrac watches Combeferre fight with himself as everyone else starts talking loudly again, and he shrinks back into deeper shadows when Combeferre’s eyes flick over to his hiding spot.  He can see Combeferre deliberating on whether to bring Courfeyrac out, and Courfeyrac cocks his head as he catches Combeferre’s eye.  He gives a barely-there nod and pads across the floor to Courfeyrac.  Courfeyrac’s heart rate spikes, and he feels his neck getting flushed at the thought of coming out and standing in front of all these strangers ( _not strangers, the back of his mind whispers)_. He bites his lip hard when Combeferre’s suddenly standing in front of him.  “You ok?” Combeferre mutters, his voice deep.  Courfeyrac nods.  “Then let’s go.”  

Combeferre wraps his fingers around Courfeyrac’s wrist to bring him along, and Courfeyrac almost doesn’t process walking out because he’s so focused on the feeling of the tips of Combeferre’s fingers rubbing against his pulse.  Courfeyrac finally walks out into the center of the room...

And everyone falls dead quiet.  Courfeyrac can feel their eyes scanning up and down him, and he can sense an overall tension in the air, like a strand of hair being pulled until it’s ready to snap.

“ _Amis,”_  Combeferre says, with a tremor in his voice, “meet Courfeyrac.”

“ _Oh,”_ Enjolras whispers, like he’s been punched in the gut. 

Courfeyrac’s head whips around, analyzing everyone’s individual faces.  Marius’s sticks out to him the most; he’s gone bone-pale under his vibrant ginger freckles and his hand is clutched in a vice grip around his knee.  His eyes are staring straight at Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac shrinks back slightly at the  _haunted_ look in Marius’s eyes.  He’s never seen him before now as far as he can remember, but he feels like he could map Marius’s freckles from memory if given the chance.

Jehan’s next; they’re fiddling with the end of their braid and winding it around their finger.  Their brown eyes have shot wide, and they’re mouthing something as they stare at Courfeyrac.  The others are doing much of the same; staring at Courfeyrac and whispering to each other quietly.  Courfeyrac looks over to Enjolras, seeing his hands twitch like he wants to hug Courfeyrac.  

Combeferre’s the one Courfeyrac returns to, as always.  His eyes are sweeping up and down Courfeyrac as if he’s drinking him in, and his eyes are shining at the corners like Enjolras’s.

“You found him,” Marius whispers.

Combeferre nods jerkily, his jaw clenching and unclenching.  

“How long?” Enjolras asks quietly. 

“Since early this morning.  He slept in my room today --” Grantaire smirks and leans over to mutter something to Bahorel -- “then, he woke up about 20 minutes ago and we came out.  I found him last night in Paris and saved him --”

“Um, excuse me,” Courfeyrac interrupts, unable to keep his mouth shut.  “As I recall, it was  _me_ who saved  _you_?” 

“What?” Combeferre breaks off, turning to look Courfeyrac in the eye.  “I saved you from falling off the roof --”

“And I sewed your shadow back on!  Trust me, I wouldn’t have fallen if your ass hadn’t been sticking out of my bedroom window!” 

“You were looking at my ass?” Combeferre says incredulously, his voice scraping low.

Courfeyrac blushes.

“Well, it’s definitely him!” the brunette girl in the red blouse says cheerfully, standing up.  “Only Courfeyrac could argue with someone and turn it into something about Combeferre’s ass.”  She comes over and wraps her arms around Courfeyrac, enveloping him in a mist of jasmine.  “Cosette, sweetie,” she introduces herself.  “Glad to have you back.”

“Back?” Courfeyrac repeats, confused.  “Combeferre, what’s going on?  Who are these people?” he asks, turning to Combeferre and looking up at him.

“He doesn’t remember?” Enjolras says desperately, grabbing Combeferre’s arm.  “How can he not --”

“Enjolras --”

“What do you mean, remember --”

“Courfeyrac --”

“Combeferre, who is he?”

“Would everyone please stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Courfeyrac explodes, feeling his cheeks flush in anger and his hands start trembling.  “Now, I want to know who the hell all of you are, why you know me, and why you’re all batshit insane.”

Nobody moves.

“Now!” Courfeyrac cries.

“Alright,” Jehan says.  “Come and sit down and we’ll explain.”

“Jehan --” Combeferre and Enjolras start.

“He has to know at some point,” Jehan says firmly.  “You can’t keep him confused and at your side forever, Combeferre.”

“I’m not --”

“Now, Courfeyrac,” Jehan says, pulling him over and gently pushing him down into their vacated cushioned chair.  Courfeyrac sinks back into it automatically and then forces himself to sit straight.  “What do you want to know?”

Courfeyrac thinks for a second.  “How do all of you know my name?”

“We all know  _you_ ,” Jehan answers simply, and Courfeyrac’s mind reels at the impossibility of it.  He’s certain he’s never met any of these people in his life before  _(but you have)._

“Who are all of you?”

“Well, you probably already know most of us depending on how long you and Combeferre were standing there, right?”

Courfeyrac nods.  “Yeah, but who  _are_ you?”

“Getting right into it, aren’t we,” Jehan mutters under their breath.  “Shame.  Enjolras?”

“Me?” Enjolras stutters, and Courfeyrac’s head throbs like hearing Enjolras uncertain is  _wrong, wrong, wrong._

“You explained it to the rest of us,” Jehan reasons.  “You’ve got the most experience.”

Courfeyrac watches Enjolras’s face flicker, and then darts his eyes over to examine Combeferre.  He’s standing next to Enjolras, leaning back against the table, and his eyes move over to connect with Courfeyrac’s.  When they make eye contact, Courfeyrac promptly looks away, and he can practically see Combeferre slump.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says, biting his lip.  “We...”

“Just spit it out,” Courfeyrac snaps.  “I’m sick of this cautiousness bullshit.  I can handle it.”

“We’ve all been reincarnated from the June Rebellion of 1832 in France.  We died, and you did too, and all of us got sent here... except you.  We don’t age here, and everything was fine until about a week ago when pirate ships started to invade the lagoon.  We’re pretty sure they’re the reincarnated Guard that we fought in 1832 coming back, and apparently they’re not the only thing that came back,” Enjolras finishes, motioning to Courfeyrac.

“This isn’t right,” Courfeyrac refuses, shaking his head and curls flying around his face as he turns imploringly to Combeferre.  “Combeferre, can’t you just tell me the truth?  If you’re lying to me now, haven’t you been lying the whole time?”

“ _No_ ,” Combeferre denies vehemently, biting down on his bottom lip and tugging at it.

“Then what the hell is going on?”

“I just told you,” Enjolras says, focusing sharp eyes on Courfeyrac’s.  “We’re reincarnated, and we’re fighting the Guard again to try and win the second time around.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“He’s not,” Combeferre says quietly, pushing off the table.  “You’ve seen my tattoos, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire snickers.

“The chest ones... Grantaire didn’t do them.  They’re... from the June Rebellion.”

“How?” Courfeyrac deadpans.

“The Rebellion... didn’t go well,” Enjolras interjects.  “Most of us got shot; most of us got shot several times.” Enjolras pauses, tugging his red jacket off his shoulders and slinging it onto the table before unbuttoning his shirt.  He’s got blood-red rose tattoos scattered across his chest; two of the roses in full bloom, and five more are half-opened like morning glories when the sun’s just peeking over the horizon.  The last rose, on the left side of Enjolras’s chest near the two full-bloom roses, is only a bud.  Its color is deeper than the others, wine-red, but Courfeyac can see the petals peeling away from the bud like it’s just beginning to bloom.  “I got shot eight times,” Enjolras says, wincing, and Courfeyrac feels a phantom stab of pain in his heart.

“Your moths...” Courfeyrac wonders, turning to Combeferre.

Combeferre crosses his arms at his hips and lifts, his shirt coming over his head and ruffling his dark hair.  He blinks slowly at Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac drifts closer, peering at the moth tattoos for the second time.  His eyes trail over the dark blue one, and he realizes it really is moving, fluttering its wings delicately.  

“Me,” Combeferre says, wrapping his fingers around Courfeyrac’s hand and pulling it up to his chest to trace it over the dark blue moth.  “Enjolras,” he says, moving Courfeyrac’s hand over the red and black and gold moth.  He lets go of Courfeyrac’s hand, and Courfeyrac’s fingers automatically brush the pale green moth over Combeferre’s heart, inexplicably drawn to it.  “And you,” Combeferre murmurs, dark eyes watching Courfeyrac’s face.

Courfeyrac blinks.  “Me?”

“You.” Combeferre affirms, fingers twitching and eyes shining.

“No,” Courfeyrac mutters, stumbling back and biting his lip until he breaks skin.  “No, there’s no way.  Stop lying to me.”

“Courf --”

Combeferre reaches out to try and catch Courfeyrac’s wrist, but Enjolras slides his hand onto Combeferre’s shoulder, shaking his head.  Courfeyrac watches Combeferre look over to Enjolras, his eyes pleading, and sees an exchange pass between them in a split second.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras starts, “what else can we do to prove it to you?”

“Nothing, because none of this is real!” Courfeyrac laughs hysterically.  “I mean, kudos to you for whatever you’ve done to make me dream this up, and I shouldn’t want to wake up because I’ll probably be gagged in a warehouse somewhere, but there’s no way any of this is real.  It can’t be.”

“Haven’t you ever felt something was off?  Just a flicker in your thoughts, or you’re sad about something without knowing why?  Your mother --”

“Don’t,” Courfeyrac hisses.  “Don’t you dare say anything about her.”

“Your father, he --”

“No,” Courfeyrac growls.  “Stop, that’s enough --”

“Enjolras --” Combeferre tries.

“Just listen --”

“Enjolras!” a voice yells, and Courfeyrac whips his head around to see Grantaire rising from where he was draped on the table, striding over.  “Just stop.”

“But he --”

“ _Enough_ , Enj.  You’re pushing him too much, too soon, and you know what it was like the first time, so give him a break,” Grantaire insists, curling his fingers around Enjolras’s wrist.  Enjolras’s eyes flicker down to Grantaire’s hand and he opens his mouth, but takes a deep breath and lets it out.

“Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac raises his chin, jaw tight.

“I apologize.  I went too far and I pushed you too much, and I hope you’ll remember eventually, but we’ll stop for now.”

“Good,” Courfeyrac says, fists clenching and unclenching.  Pictures are flashing through his mind, and his head is ringing and echoing like a bell in a cathedral.  “I need some air.”

“Courf --” Combeferre starts, his body angled towards Courfeyrac, shoulders tense and feet floating a few centimeters off the ground.

“I’ll be outside,” Courfeyrac says, not looking at Combeferre, and he pushes past the others and slips through the door.

***

Courfeyrac scrambles down a frayed rope ladder and speed-walks for a minute, eventually plopping down in the tall grass.  His head’s spinning, and he tries to take deep breaths in an effort to calm himself down, but it only makes him breathe faster and faster.  His eyes are watering and his hands are shaking and he’s pretty sure he’s having a panic attack; why wouldn’t he after all this?  His heart’s running a marathon in his chest and his throat is closing up, but he manages to tuck his legs underneath him and look around.

He sees fireflies flickering through the field, a rabbit hopping over a log.  He sees the leaves of the forest twisting in the breeze, a red flag hanging from a pole, and his own hands clenched around his knees.  He feels his own breath rushing in and out of his lungs, and feels the nails on one of his hands dig into the skin under his ripped jeans as his other hand runs through his tangled hair.  He feels wind whispering over his skin, bringing the sound of an owl hooting and leaves crackling in the forest, a distant wolf howl echoing through his ears as he tucks his knees up under his chin.  He can smell rich dirt around him and vanilla on his jeans ( _it just makes him think of_ _Combeferre_ _now_ ), and he can taste the tang of blood from where he’s bitten his lip too hard.  Slowly, his breathing evens out, and he wipes his mouth of the back of his hand.

Courfeyrac stills as he hears someone brushing through the grass behind him, and he’s prepared to walk away if it’s Combeferre because he just can’t handle seeing him right now, but then he sees a flash of auburn hair and a pile of long limbs settles in a pile next to him.  He glances over and sees a flash of freckles; it’s Marius, and Courfeyrac’s hands tingle as his brain struggles to break through a barricade in his mind.

Marius catches Courfeyrac’s glance over at him, and twists his fingers in his lap.

“I’m Marius,” Marius mumbles.

“I know,” Courfeyrac says flatly, staring into the forest.  

“Oh, yeah,” Marius stutters, still watching Courfeyrac like he’s searching for something.

“Do you need something?” Courfeyrac finally snaps, tired of people trying to find someone else in him, and winces internally at his tone.  Marius flinches slightly, and his face drops.

“No, um, I’ll just --”

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac sighs.  “You don’t have to leave, Marius.”

“Right.”

“What did you need?”

“Well, I know you’re upset --”

Courfeyrac laughs.

“but I just wanted to let you know that it’s ok if you don’t remember,” Marius says earnestly, his eyes wide.  “We’ll accept you even if you don’t, and if you do that’s fine too.  We – well, I – just want to get to know you for who you are.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says dumbly.  “Really?”

“Of course.”

“I guess I just kind of felt like you were all expecting me to be someone else, and I just can’t be that.  I’m me, and I’m used to that being wrong, but --”

“That’s not wrong,” Marius says fiercely, standing up suddenly.  “There’s nothing wrong with being you.  You know who you are, and you know your value, and there’s nothing else that matters.”

Courfeyrac blinks.   _A_ _brick_ _of the barricade is falling, tumbling down and crashing to the ground._

“You -- you told me that, once,” Marius mutters.  “The first you, that is.  I was upset, and hurt --”

“And your grandfather was being a dick,” Courfeyrac adds slowly, rising to his feet and turning to face Marius, “and you came home to our room crying and you kept saying you were wrong and asking what was wrong with you, and I told you --”

“You told me nothing could ever be wrong with me,” Marius whispers, hands shaking violently. 

_The barricade’s down._

“Marius,” Courfeyrac breathes, and lets out a tiny sob as he launches himself at Marius, tugging him into a hug.  Marius is trembling, and his arms wrap around Courfeyrac’s back and clutch at his t-shirt as Courfeyrac drops his head onto Marius’s shoulder, his arms linked around his neck.  They’re both crying and sobbing at the same time, and  _Courfeyrac_ _has one of his best friends back._ Scenes are rushing through his mind of late-night discussions from across their tiny room and flickering, dripping candles, running through Paris with Marius’s hand clasped in his and laughing into the wind as Marius babbles on about a girl with stars in her smile and another with moonbeams in her eyes. 

They eventually separate, Marius letting more tears run down his face as Courfeyrac scrubs at his eyes.  Marius snickers -- “You’ve got dirt on your face,” and Courfeyrac gives a laugh as he brushes his hand off on his jeans and wipes at his face, staring at Marius.

“I missed you, dork,” Courfeyrac says.

“How could you miss me if you didn’t remember me?” Marius teases, and Courfeyrac grins at how much more confidence Marius has than in the  _first days_.

“I’m magic like that,” Courfeyrac smirks, and he and Marius start grinning again.

“That’s where I get the sewing from,” Courfeyrac gasps, images flashing through his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I know how to sew and I didn’t know why and --” Courfeyrac starts laughing so hard he’s cackling -- “it’s because I had to sew fabric onto the hem of your pants; your legs were so long your ankles kept getting frostbite in the winter.”

Marius takes one look at the tears streaming down Courfeyrac’s cheeks and looks down, seeing that his jeans are short three centimeters above the ankles, and starts laughing, breath wheezing out of his chest.

Courfeyrac absentmindedly hears the door to Amis House open and close, but ignores it as he and Marius laugh, throwing themselves back down to the ground.  Footsteps pad closer, and Courfeyrac sees leather boots stepping through the grass in the edge of his vision.  Someone clears their throat, and Courfeyrac looks up with tears of laughter in his eyes to see Combeferre, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes flitting between Marius and Courfeyrac.

“Can I help you?” Courfeyrac says, glancing over and seeing Marius sit up straight.

“I -- can I talk to you?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Courfeyrac answers casually, patting the ground next to him.

“Alone? Sorry, Marius, I promise it’s nothing to do with you,” Combeferre says awkwardly, and with anyone else it’d sound terrible but with Combeferre it just sounds completely sincere.

“Yeah, of course,” Marius hums, pulling himself up and rubbing Courfeyrac’s shoulder.  “I’ll see you later.”

Courfeyrac grins at him, watching as Marius walks back to Amis House and Combeferre floats down to the dirt next to him.  Courfeyrac turns his head back to the forest, gaze scanning over the trees, illuminated in shafts of moonlight with miniscule ethereal lights weaving through the branches.  

“Courf -- I --” Combeferre stutters, eyes running over Courfeyrac’s figure.  Courfeyrac looks over at Combeferre out of the corner of his eye; his eyebrows are scrunched together, forearms tense and eyelashes wet.

“Look, Combeferre, maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Courfeyrac interrupts.  “I don’t belong here; you’ve all got your group and each other and I really just don’t quite fit except for with Marius.  None of it’s your fault, of course,” Courfeyrac amends hastily, eyes narrowing as he stares down at his scuffed yellow converse, “but maybe we just need to leave well enough alone and say goodbye for good.”

“Don’t!” Combeferre blurts out, and Courfeyrac’s head jerks up, his eyes locking with Combeferre’s.  “Don’t -- never say goodbye.”

“What --”

“Never say goodbye,” Combeferre pleads, “because goodbye means going away, and going away means forgetting, and I really don’t think I can take you forgetting again,” he smiles sadly.

“I’m not going to forget,” Courfeyrac laughs nervously.

“Won't you?” Combeferre mutters, dragging his gaze to the ground.  “We’ve already scared you away, and you seem like you don’t like any of this, and with good reason.  We won’t force you to stay here, Courfeyrac.”

“No?”

“Of course not!” Combeferre cries.  “I mean... we won’t force you, but...”

“But?”

“But I want you to stay,” Combeferre whispers.  His head is tilted down and he won’t look at Courfeyrac; his fingers are twisting a twine ring around and around his thumb and his voice shakes a little.

Courfeyrac’s heart twists a little bit; Combeferre looks so  _sad_. Courfeyrac’s memories supposedly came back, but he can feel more bumping at the edges of his mind and whenever he tries to catch them they fly away.  Regardless of the lack of memories he has, he can feel that Combeferre’s important; he’s felt it since the very beginning.

“Then I’ll stay,” Courfeyrac answers softly, catching Combeferre’s fingers in his own.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Combeferre smiles breathlessly.

***

When Courfeyrac comes back into Amis House trailing Combeferre, the room goes silent again and Courfeyrac rolls his eyes.  “Could you guys stop, like, shutting up when I walk in?  I’m not some glass shit, and I’m pretty sure the Courfeyrac you knew wouldn’t appreciate dead silence when he comes in.  Or maybe he would, if he was as dramatic as I am, but that’s beside the point,” Courfeyrac sighs.  “Just chill out and keep planning your revolution; I’ll be here.”

Combeferre snickers, and Marius grins from where he’s sitting with Cosette.

“Well, that hasn’t changed,” Enjolras mutters.  “Welcome back, Courfeyrac.  How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” Courfeyrac deadpans.

“I figured,” Enjolras snorts.  “That was a stupid question, wasn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“Fantastic.”

“I’m impressed, Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says.  “You got Apollo to admit he did something stupid.  I’ve never been able to do that, and I’m not sure anyone else could.”

“Not true!” Enjolras objects, whipping around and glaring at Grantaire.  “I always admit when I'm wrong about things!”

“Yeah, but you never admit when you’re wrong about an argument with me,” Grantaire says with a smirk.

Enjolras scoffs.  “I would think the fact that I continue to kiss you would be sufficient,” he mutters.

“Hold up,” Courfeyrac interjects.  “You two?” he gestures between Enjolras and Grantaire.

“Yes, we have decided that we provide a mutually beneficial dynamic --”

“They finally got their shit together?” Courfeyrac exclaims gleefully, turning to Jehan with a grin.  

“Yep,” Jehan chirps.  “No thanks to your meddling, though.”

“How dare you,” Courfeyrac gasps.  “Locking two people in a closet is the most tried-and-true method for getting them to bang when there’s that much sexual tension.”

“Doesn’t really work when one of them’s in abject denial that he loves the other,” Combeferre rumbles from next to him, and Courfeyrac looks up with his eyes shining to see a smile creeping across Combeferre’s mouth.  He looks down at Courfeyrac and laughs, his gaze taking in Courfeyrac’s face.

“You’re one to talk, Combeferre,” ‘Chetta calls from where she’s sprawled across Bossuet.

“Ooh, do tell, ‘Chetta,” Courfeyrac says eagerly.

“You don’t know --” Bossuet starts, but cuts himself off when Joly taps him on the nose.

“No interfering,” Joly says sternly.

“You’ll figure it out soon enough,” ‘Chetta says, grinning at Courfeyrac.

“Speaking of figuring things out,” Enjolras cuts in, “we need to figure out what’s happening with the guard.”

“Back to business, Apollo,” Grantaire groans, but ruffles Enjolras’s hair when he glares at him.  Enjolras huffs and fusses with his hair, muttering something to Grantaire and pressing a kiss to his wrist, and then gets up to tug over a small, empty couch.  

“Here,” Enjolras gestures.  “You and Combeferre can share the couch.”

“Right,” Courfeyrac mumbles, and perches on the edge of the couch, trying to squish himself as small as possible.  Regardless of his best efforts, Combeferre’s thigh is still pressing against his when he gingerly sits down, and Courfeyrac can feel the heat of his skin through two layers of fabric.  He stays stiffly upright, listening to Enjolras, until he feels Combeferre’s soft fingertips trace over his bare neck and he stiffens even more, somehow.

“Relax, Courf,” Combeferre breathes in his ear.  “It’s fine.”

Courfeyrac chances a quick dart of his eyes to Combeferre’s face; he’s watching Enjolras gesture violently to their friends but he’s got a slight dark tint to his cheeks.  Courfeyrac relaxes a tiny amount, his shoulder brushing against Combeferre’s arm as their bodies line up, and he can feel a tiny puff of a sigh from Combeferre.  Courfeyrac smiles, and focuses back on the conversation in front of him.

“The Guard are coming.  When they’ll get here, we don’t know, but Jehan, you mentioned Montparnasse sent another message?”

“Yes, he did,” Jehan says.  “Éponine went out to investigate, and it’s confirmed that the Guard are definitely moving forward.  They’ve got some sort of underwater creature with them; Éponine says she and Patron-Minette will take care of that part.  They’ve got no desire to keep this going longer than needed either.”

“Did either of them tell you a time of arrival?”

“Well...” Jehan trails off, looking at the ground.

“Jehan.  When are they coming?” Enjolras says urgently.

“‘Parnasse’s estimating a day.”

The entire room bursts into chaos, people chattering and worrying, and Courfeyrac looks over to Combeferre.  He’s taut with tension, eyes flicking from Enjolras to Jehan and to everyone else, and Courfeyrac looks down and realizes Combeferre’s thumb is running over a tiny bit of Courfeyrac’s bare skin exposed by his ripped jeans.  Combeferre suddenly looks over, locking eyes with Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac feels a tinge of fear run through him.  Combeferre looks scared, and his eyes are darting over every centimeter of Courfeyrac’s face like he’s going to disappear before his eyes.  “What’s up?” Courfeyrac murmurs, leaning closer to hear Combeferre above everyone else.

“Nothing.”

“Combeferre.”

“I just – I can’t lose any of them.” Combeferre gestures to the  _Amis_ moving around the room, getting ready _,_ and his hand drops back to his lap.  “I can’t lose you, Courf.  Not again.”

“I’m right here --”

“Yeah, but that’s what we thought at the barricades last time,” Combeferre whispers, “and look how that turned out.”

Courfeyrac’s chest aches, and he gasps a little at the sharp pain rushing through his back to his heart.  Combeferre’s eyes widen, and he gently grabs Courfeyrac’s hands.  “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, my chest just  _hurts_ ,” Courfeyrac manages.

“Mine does too, sometimes,” Combeferre hums.  “It goes away.”

“Yeah, it’s gone.”

“Courfeyrac... if we do end up fighting, promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course I will,” Courfeyrac laughs.  “When aren't I?”

“I’m serious,” Combeferre pleads.  “It’s dangerous for all of us, but you haven’t known your history for as long as the rest of us.  You could have flashbacks or pass out, and you haven’t been training.  Hopefully you’ll remember how to use your sword --”

“A sword?” Courfeyrac asks incredulously.

“-- but either way, I need you to promise me you’ll try to stay safe.”

“Only if you do the same,” Courfeyrac says firmly.

“I will.”

“Then I will too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahha the next chapter will be...fun  
> 


	3. that place between sleep and awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac’s surprisingly content as they march out to battle.  
> -  
> or: oh boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /oof/  
> credits - again, kudos to @pilferingapples and @song-of-orpheus on tumblr for helping me with Brick-accurate research for this chapter, along with plenty of other people!  
> have funnnnnnnnnn

Courfeyrac’s surprisingly content as they march out to battle.

Sure, they’re going out to fight the Guard, for the second time, apparently, but he’s sure that if they’ve been reincarnated once and don’t even  _age_ , nothing too terrible could happen.  He’s got a bit of anxiety lurking at the edge of his mind from how nervous Combeferre seemed, but he’s sure everything’ll be fine.

If it’s not, he’s just going to go right ahead and ignore it.

He spent the day running through sword work and drills with Combeferre and Marius; he still seems to remember most of his training, so that’s good.

The  _Amis_ reach the beach far too quickly, pouring out onto the sand.  It’s nighttime, the moon hovering over the waves where they lap gently against the shore, and Coufeyrac’s reminded of his swim when he first came to Neverland.

There’s a massive ship moored to a rock shaped like a skull, and the ship’s gangplank is stuck into the edge of the sand.  The wind whistles eerily through the ship’s ropes, and a void-black sail flutters from the highest mast.  The ship’s deserted; the Guard’s nowhere in sight.

“Enjolras, what’s going on?” Courfeyrac hisses.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras whispers back.  “Jehan, wasn’t the Guard here, last you heard?”

“Yeah, but ‘Parnasse did say they looked like they were getting ready to explore.  Maybe they’re looking for supplies.”

“We’ll have to go up and find them.  I’m not letting this drag on anymore,” Enjolras says fiercely, raking his hair into a bun and tying it up.

The  _Amis_ creep across the sand, advancing on the ship.  Courfeyrac is the first to step foot onto the gangplank, ignoring Combeferre whisper-yelling at him, and pads onto the deck.  Barrels are stacked around the deck next to crates, forming a sort of blockade ( _barricade_ ), and the doors to belowdecks are sealed shut tight.  The water rushes up against the edge of the ship, drops of water sprinkling on the deck, and Courfeyrac peers into the mist.  It’s hauntingly silent, but he can see ripples in the water a few meters out, and his shoulders tense.  He opens his mouth to call back to his friends, but stops when the little mer-boy, Gavroche, pops his head out of the water.

“What are you doing here, Gavroche?” he hisses.

“I came to help!” Gavroche says cheerfully, pulling himself up onto the deck and giggling as his scales swirl around his tail, melting into legs.

“Does Éponine know you’re here?”

“Nope!”

“Gavroche, you can’t --” 

Courfeyrac cuts himself off when he hears the thundering of footsteps, looking over and seeing the ship’s crew shoving onto the deck.  “Enj --” he yells, but is cut off when one of the men rushes over and slashes at him.  Courfeyrac stumbles back, sword swinging, and desperately looks over his shoulder.  His friends are all fighting, swords whirling and clanging, and Courfeyrac manages to twist out of a parry into a snakestrike and club his opponent over the head with the pommel of his sword, sending them sprawling to the ground.  

He keeps fighting, pushing his hair out of his eyes, when the fight goes dead silent, the screech of metal still echoing through the sticky air, and he notices Combeferre leaning over the ship’s rail.  Courfeyrac slinks over to stand next to Combeferre, wondering why he looks torn-up, and feels a stab of fear.

Gavroche is striding down the gangplank, straight into the line of sight of all the Guard clustered at the bottom.  He grins, looking back at Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac stumbles, agony shooting through his chest.  His mind overlays an image of an older Gavroche crawling down a furniture barricade in a deserted Parisian street, flashing the exact same smirk at Courfeyrac, and he drops his sword to the deck with a clatter.

“Gavroche,” he mutters, desperation in his voice, and lurches forward, but Combeferre throws a hand out against his chest, restraining him.  Courfeyarc looks up, and Combeferre’s staring at him, pleading with him to stay still.  Courfeyrac clenches a hand around Combeferre’s arm, trying to push him away, but he just tightens his grip.  “ _Gavroche_ ,” Courfeyrac begs, starting to lunge for the gangplank, and Combeferre wraps both arms around him now, holding him in place.  

Courfeyrac struggles, his hair falling in his eyes and his vision blurring, and Combeferre heaves him backwards, lowering him to the ground and motioning to Marius, who comes over and holds Courfeyrac down while Combeferre whispers to Courfeyrac -- “It’ll be alright, he’ll be fine.” Courfeyrac slackens, and the second Combeferre relaxes Courfeyrac's vaulting up, tumbling over to the gangplank and throwing himself down it.  

Gavroche’s on the sand now, still marching toward the Guard with a glint in his eye, and Courfeyrac stretches a hand out in a futile attempt to catch him, his face contorting desperately and eyes tearing up.  He hears the crack of a shot and sees one of the Guard putting a gun back in his belt, and hears Gavroche grunt as the bullet enters his flesh.  Courfeyrac sees him plunge to the ground in slow motion and throws himself onto the sand, hunching over Gavroche’s body.  His eyes are closed and his chest’s barely moving; blood is seeping out of his shoulder and he’s got a smirk resting on his lips.  

Courfeyrac heaves him up into his arms, sprinting back up the gangplank, and collapses to the deck with Gavroche in his lap.  The  _Amis_ are swarming around him on the deck, and Courfeyrac looks up just in time to catch Combeferre watching him with a concerned look in his eyes.  

Courfeyrac’s heart stops when he hears Gavroche’s breathing stutter, and abruptly sobs are tearing their way out of him, ripping his throat raw and wracking his body as he cradles Gavroche’s head in his hands.  He has no reason to be this attached to Gavroche, but he can see echoes of an older boy, sprawled in a dirty doorway and brightening as Courfeyrac offers a hand to pull him up and press a vivid red apple into his fingers.  He pictures this Gavroche’s hopeful face as he begs Courfeyrac to stay and play with him, and sobs even harder at the possibility of him never waking back up.

And then Gavroche takes a deep breath.

“Oh, thank you,  _thank you_ ,” Courfeyrac babbles, watching Gavroche’s eyelids flutter open.  He hears a shout and looks over to see Éponine sprinting across the deck, water dripping behind her as she falls to the boards next to her brother.

“Is he ok?” she asks desperately, running her thumb over his cheek, and grabbing Cosette’s hand from where she’s rushed over to kneel next to her.  Marius stands behind Cosette, and he gently rubs Éponine’s back.

“He’ll be fine,” Combeferre says softly, coming over to wrap Courfeyrac in a hug as Éponine transfers Gavroche to her lap.  “You need to get him taken care of, but he’s not going to die immediately.”

Éponine heaves a sigh of relief and stands up on shaky legs, holding Gavroche tenderly in her arms.  “Thank you,” she says solemnly, staring at Courfeyrac, and he nods.  Éponine strides over to the edge of the deck, throwing a weak smile back at Cosette and Marius, and then leaps over the side and she’s gone.

Courfeyrac breathes in shakily, registering Combeferre kneeling behind him and rubbing a hand up and down Courfeyrac’s shoulder as his breath puffs hot against Courfeyrac’s ear.  “You did the right thing,” Combeferre whispers.  “I was scared for you,  _so scared_ , but you did what you had to.”

“I’m still here,” Courfeyrac murmurs back, pulling himself to his feet and running a hand down Combeferre’s arm.  “I’ll be fine.  Good luck.”

Combeferre nods and runs back over to the fight, and Courfeyrac slowly tunes into the sounds of the chaos around him.  He looks back out over the lagoon and sees the water thrashing, merpeople’s tails whipping in and out of the water and lights under the surface exploding and sending flurries of bubbles rushing up.  He turns around just in time to catch a strike on the flat of his blade, and hisses when his sword is knocked out of his grip.  

He ducks just in time, rolling across the deck as the other person’s sword whisks over his head, and snatches up his sword, backing away.  Courfeyrac slowly leads his enemy down the gangplank and onto the sand, joining other  _amis_ to go back-to-back.  He’s fighting behind Jehan, sweat dripping into his eyes, when they suddenly give a shout and he whirls around to see them being dragged away, their captor roughly tying a blindfold around their head.  

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac screams, lunging forward, but another soldier blocks him.  He turns sharply and starts sprinting, making his way over to Enjolras and Combeferre where they’re fighting another group of soldiers.  “The Guard took Jehan,” he pants desperately, and Enjolras practically chokes, Combeferre’s eyes narrowing as he bears down on a soldier and finally knocks him out.  

“Where are they?” Enjolras demands, and Courfeyrac almost drops his sword, his hands are shaking so bad.  

“I don’t know,” he answers, face twisting.  “We have to find them.”

“We will,” Combeferre says darkly.  His hand tightens around his sword, and before Courfeyrac can process anything Combeferre’s striding forward into the center of the beach.

“Where is our friend?” Combeferre roars, eyes flashing as he stabs his blade into the sand in front of him.

“Vive la France!” Jehan’s voice yells, and they emerge out of the ranks of the Guard, blindfolded and thrown to the sand by the edge of the sea.  Guns and swords are leveled at their chest, and their face hardens and their fists clench in the sand.

Courfeyrac can see the terror in the lines of their face, and he desperately wants to lunge forward and tear the blindfold off their eyes, but Combeferre’s still standing before the Guard and Courfeyrac’s  _terrified_ that any move will cause them to kill Combeferre and Jehan.

“Do you have anything you wish to say?” the Captain of the Guard spits harshly, firing a shot by Jehan’s feet where they’re sprawled on the sand, their hair fallen loose of its tie, flowing into the waves, and their sunflower’s petals wilted and drooping.  

“Vive l’avenir,” Jehan hisses, and Courfeyrac screams as the Captain raises his gun and -

And Montparnasse comes prowling out of the lagoon, his silver tail shimmering and evaporating into the salt-heavy air as his eyes glint and his left arm rears back, a dagger clutched in his long, thin fingers releasing and flying through the air; spinning and twisting and burying itself to the hilt in the Captain’s chest.  The Captain chokes and falls back, melting into the soldiers’ ranks as they surge forward with a battle cry and the  _Amis_ meet them head-on.  

Courfeyrac watches as Montparnasse drops to his knees next to Jehan, ripping the blindfold off their face and whispering into their ear as they bolt upright and wrap themselves around him, trembling.  Courfeyrac launches back into the fight, knowing Montparnasse will keep Jehan safe.  He notices, absentmindedly, that he’s shaking as he heaves his sword up and tears through a soldier’s armor.  His head is spinning and he feels the familiar rush of memories coming on, but he grits his teeth and suppresses them as yet another soldier comes charging forward.  

After he knocks that one out, he twists around, searching for his friends.  Most everyone is still going; Montparnasse is guiding Jehan onto the ship, but the rest of his friends are continuing to fight.  The Guard is diminishing slowly but surely, their numbers small from the start, and Courfeyrac lets himself be filled with just a tiny bit of hope because  _maybe they might actually be free, maybe it won’t be the end this time._  

He catches a glimpse of Enjolras and Grantaire fighting side by side, Grantaire managing to make a breathless quip and Enjolras erupting into delighted laughter as he blocks a strike.  Marius and Cosette have teamed up with Éponine, who’s emerged from the lagoon again to exact vengeance for Gavroche, and they’re working on a duo of soldiers who look quite afraid of their trio.  ‘Chetta, Bossuet, and Joly are working with Bahorel and Feuilly to take turns darting in and confusing a large group of soldiers, picking them off one by one as they turn on each other.  

A spike of panic shoots through Courfeyrac when he doesn’t see Combeferre, but then he finds him fighting solo.  Courfeyrac watches for a second until another soldier comes rushing over, and Courfeyrac finds himself automatically blocking and parrying while keeping his eyes trained on Combeferre.

One minute, Combeferre’s fighting, his eyes flashing and lips pulled into a grim line as he whips his sword back and forth, blocking the other soldier’s strikes as they smash down against his blade, and the next second, he’s dropping to the sand, his head thrown to the swirling sky, and Courfeyrac freezes.  He lurches forward involuntarily, fear bubbling up in his chest like acid, but then --

He sees Combeferre drag himself back to his feet and keep fighting.  Courfeyrac feels a wave of relief rush through his body from his toes up, and he doubles over for a second, breathing hard and screwing his eyes shut.

Suddenly, his breathing stutters.

He looks down, and --

There’s a sword embedded in his back, the wet tip of the blade poking through the center of his chest, and he watches through hazy vision as the sword is pulled out and his knees buckle, sending him plummeting to the ground.  He cries out as he sprawls across the sand; Combeferre’s head snaps over, his mouth opening and a scream ripping out that sounds like it’s tearing his throat apart, and then he’s desperately careening across the sand and falling to his knees next to Courfeyrac.

“Courf, oh my god, Courf,” Combeferre stutters, his whole body trembling and his fingers fluttering over Courfeyrac’s chest, uncharacteristically scattered.  “Courf, what do I do --”

“Combeferre --”

“No, no, this isn’t  _fair_ ,” Combeferre whimpers, his voice breaking.  “It wasn’t supposed to go like this, it wasn’t supposed to happen again, it  _can’t_ ,” he chokes out, lifting Courfeyrac’s head onto his lap.

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac mumbles, his hand drifting up to cup Combeferre’s face.  “Combeferre, it’s ok.”

“What the hell, Courfeyrac, no, it’s not ok,” Combeferre sobs, clutching Courfeyrac’s hand with his own.  

“No, really,” Courfeyrac rasps.  “It’s been a good run; I met new and old friends and got away from my life for a bit, it wasn’t truly good and now it’s done, and I – I don’t regret any of it, Combeferre, because I remembered you, and that’s all I needed.”

“Stop being sappy,” Combeferre demands.  “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac says, “I’m dying.  Do I really need to tell you that?” he laughs weakly.

“No, listen, when you die here I’m pretty sure you come back in the real world,” Combeferre says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself as much as Courfeyrac.

“There’s no damn proof, Combeferre, there’s no way I can trust that.”

“You can trust me.”

“Yeah, of course, but --”

“Just please trust me, because – because I genuinely don’t want to think about what happens if it doesn’t work.  You’re gonna go to sleep here and then you’re gonna wake right up back in Paris, Courf, and you’ll be safe and it won’t hurt anymore.”

“But you won’t be there.”

“Not right away, no --”

“Normally I don’t give a crap about all the ‘I can’t live without you’ bullshit but I just got you back, and I – I can’t lose you after I just found you again,” Courfeyrac says desperately, and he feels blood trickling out the corner of his lips.

“I’ll find you,” Combeferre promises.  “Wait for me,” he whispers, his blood-smudged hands shaking on Courfeyrac’s arms.  “Wait for me somewhere between reality and all we’ve ever dreamed.”

“So dramatic,” Courfeyrac huffs out with a tiny laugh, tracing tired fingers over his mamá’sdandelion charm, still safe in his pocket.

Combeferre leans down and kisses him.  

It’s only the second time they’ve kissed, but Courfeyrac would swear it’s the thousandth.  

Combeferre’s fingers come to trail up Courfeyrac’s neck, and Courfeyrac feels Combeferre suck in a breath when Courfeyrac arches up and bites his lip gently.  Combeferre smells like sweat and soil, and he tastes like vanilla.  Courfeyrac’s breathing hitches as his chest throbs, and he whines as Combeferre pulls back to run his fingers over Courfeyrac’s front where scarlet-bright blood is seeping through his t-shirt.  Combeferre bows his head, folding in half over Courfeyrac and shaking a bit, and Courfeyrac’s reaching out to touch him when he pulls himself up.

“I’ll wait too,” Combeferre says quietly.  “You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I'll always --” Combeferre takes a deep, trembling breath.  “That’s where I'll be waiting.”

“Combeferre, don’t --” Courfeyrac’s fingers convulse, his ears ringing and a ruby-red flag fluttering behind his eyelids.  “Don’t wait, not for me -- I don’t know if I can get back; I might actually die and I really doubt --”

“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you can’t ever do it again,” Combeferre says fiercely, gaze focused on Courfeyrac.  “So, don’t ever doubt, and I’ll see you soon.”

“Combeferre --”

“I promise.”

“Alright,” Courfeyrac sighs.  “I promise too.”

He gasps, a bullet-pain igniting in his chest and sparking through his blood, and watches as Combeferre’s face shatters and he swallows roughly.

“Goodbye, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac breathes, and Combeferre bites hard on his lip.

“Courf --”

“It’s not a real goodbye,” Courfeyrac interrupts.  “It’s a  _goodbye_ _for now_.”

Combeferre nods, and Courfeyrac feels a tear fall on his cheek.  As it runs down his skin, his vision starts to fade until all he can see is Combeferre’s eyes as he bends down, kissing Courfeyrac’s nose, and he starts to struggle to wake up.

_He doesn’t want to go._

_But it’s too late_ _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come scream at me pls i love seeing how i've made you hate me


	4. this is where i’ll always love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac jerks awake in the middle of the street, his star-chart duvet splayed around him and his favorite cocoa mug shattered on the stone next to him. His whole body aches, his chest is throbbing, he feels tears prickling at the back of his eyes, and he feels so unbearably sad, like he’s lost something terribly important.   
> -  
> or: courf and ferre come back to each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's done!! this was so much fun to write and i'm a bit sad at being finished, but i'm glad a few people seem to be enjoying it.   
> credit - i want to give a shoutout to @dyinglikeicarus on tumblr because they drew courf and ferre as character designs a while back (not for this story) and i adore them so much, they're exactly what i was picturing for my headcanon and so they were a total inspiration  
> when i was writing this, i had a particular playlist:  
> dreams – tessa violet  
> why am i like this – orla gartland  
> psycho – lauren aquilina  
> i go crazy – orla gartland  
> in my blood – shawn mendes  
> thanks for sticking around this long!

Courfeyrac jerks awake in the middle of the street, his star-chart duvet splayed around him and his favorite cocoa mug shattered on the stone next to him.  His whole body aches, his chest is throbbing _,_ he feels tears prickling at the back of his eyes, and he feels so unbearably  _sad,_ like he’s lost something terribly important.

_What the hell happened?_

Regardless, Courfeyrac gathers up the shards of his mug and puts them in the rubbish bin, mourning the mug silently, and trudges back upstairs, trailing his duvet behind him.  He pulls out his key and is wrestling it into the lock as quietly as he can (it’s 12:01 AM, according to his somehow waterlogged watch) when he feels something sticky.  He brings his tarnished dandelion charm up to his bleary eyes and sees smears of what looks like... blood?

_What in the world was he doing?_

Finally fumbling his way inside, Courfeyrac shoves his keys back into his jeans pocket and slips into his bedroom.  His attention’s immediately drawn to the window; it’s pushed wide open and his sunflower curtains are billowing in the night breeze, moonlight filtering into his room in a shaft of light on the ratty carpet.  He crosses the room to close the window and looks up.  There’s a perfect picture of a ship floating across the moon, sails sewn from stars and hull crafted from clouds, and his head and his heart are  _pounding_.  “I have the strangest feeling I’ve seen that ship before…” Courfeyrac whispers to himself, tilting his head as he watches the ship swirl and separate into puffs of cloud.

“Courf?” a voice says from the shadows of his bedroom, and whoever it is sounds  _desperate._

“Who’s there?” Courfeyrac demands, spinning around from his window.  Someone lurks in the shadows near his old, burnt-out vanilla candle he lit just a couple hours ago.

“Combeferre,” the figure hums wistfully, and he ( _somehow_ _Courfeyrac’s_ _certain they’re a he_ ) pads forward on soft feet.  He just barely comes into the moonlight, beams playing across his crooked nose and curving jaw.

“Excuse me?”

_Courfeyrac’s_ _got_ _such_ _terrible déjà vu._

“Combeferre.  It’s my name,” the person explains hurriedly.  “Am I still a stranger?” he asks, and he sounds  _so eager._

“You --”

Courfeyrac starts to go off about why there’s a stranger in his bedroom, but his mind’s filled with a flood of scenes; a man catching Courfeyrac in his arms, pressing a thank-you to the corner of his mouth, running his hands through his hair, tossing a grin over his shoulder, collapsing to his knees next to him, and...

_A kiss on his nose and a promise._

“Combeferre?” Courfeyrac breathes, staggering forward a step with his knees dangerously close to buckling from the memories drumming at his mind and crashing through his chest.

“That’s me,” Combeferre chokes out, his arms open, and Courfeyrac falls into a hug.  Combeferre’s arms link behind Courfeyrac’s back, cradling him, and Courfeyrac feels Combeferre shuddering underneath him.  Courfeyrac stretches up on his tiptoes and tucks his head into Combeferre’s neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin as he kisses the underside of Combeferre’s jaw and Combeferre threads a hand into Courfeyrac’s hair, cupping the back of his head.

“You’re here,” Combeferre sighs, and Courfeyrac can feel warm tears dripping onto his forehead from Combeferre and trickling down onto his temples.  Combeferre’s fingers stroke through Courfeyrac’s matted hair as Courfeyrac leans back slightly, heaving in a shaky breath and puffing it back out.

“What’s that special about here?” Courfeyrac laughs breathlessly, tracing his hand across Combeferre’s collarbone.  “Neverland’s pretty cool too; I mean, the merpeople are terrifying, in my opinion, and the Guard are there and fairly annoying, and we both know how that went before --”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Combeferre teases, blinking hard.  

“No, really though ‘Ferre --”

“’Ferre?”

Courfeyrac blushes.

“Is it ok?” he asks sheepishly.

“More than ok,” and Combeferre looks like he’s going to cry again, his hand coming up to caress Courfeyrac’s face, thumb delicately stroking across his cheekbone.

“Okay, good,” Courfeyrac stammers, “but what’s so special about here?”

“This is where I’ll always love you,” Combeferre murmurs, curling an arm around Courfeyrac’s waist and pulling him even closer.

“Only here?” Courfeyrac smirks, tilting his head and tugging on a curl of Combeferre’s hair.

“Oh, shut up,” Combeferre groans, managing to flick the tip of Courfeyrac’s nose and kiss his forehead at the same time.

_Maybe not growing up isn’t so bad._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it and feed me with comments and/or kudos if you did or even if you hate me now (i'll still take it)  
> come yell at me: @cantando-siempre.tumblr.com


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